’Twas the Night Before ......... MURDER!!
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
All the mods were a-stirring, including Grand Mouse.
The stockings were hung up by dreams with great care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.
When out on the street, there arose such a clatter,
dreams sprang from the hearth to see what was the matter,
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to the body below.
A terrible sight met dreams’ eyes causing tears,
A miniature BOb, with his feet by his ears.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old sight,
And we laughed when we saw him, in spite of the night!
A click of the pen and a check next to "Dead"
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
His wings, how they glistened! His drumsticks, how merry!
His skin gleamed and glittered, as red as a cherry!
Surrounded with garnish in the shape of a bow,
And the meat of his drumsticks was white as the snow!
The punch he had made, it was no longer fit
For any to drink, no, not even a bit
For deep in the bowl had been pushed his grand nose
Now quiet as a mouse but in more than a doze.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
Lit up by the fire, flames circled his laptop,
And sizzled each time spam burst with a pop!
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And searched through the book for the typos that lurk.
His fingers a blur as they tapped at the keys,
He fixed up the text with the greatest of ease.
The mods for the most part were now all quite dead,
While visions of cookies still danced in one head.
The sprinkles on top added with a sharp rap
Had settled him down for a long winter’s nap.
And then, in a twinkling, we heard on the stairs
Footsteps that thundered, laden with cares.
The sounds they grew louder, turned all heads around,
Down the stairs with his toys, he came with a bound.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
His notes fly into cold air, and mount to the sky.
Sadly it ceased, no more music he said,
In addition to hands, it requires a head.
Dead is BOb! Dead is Pooh! Dead is Paul and dead’s Don!
Gone, Harry! Gone, DaleDe, Gone, Great Nate and Tom!
Are all dead by your hand? But it’s you next it seems!
So dash away! Dash away! Dash away, dreams!